Chapter Twelve Jemma
Chapter Twelve JEMMA
‘Hello again, Too Good to Be True reader,’ I read out loud as I write. Clara makes a wailing noise.
‘God, no!’ she cries. ‘That is all wrong.’
I blink. ‘All? Even the hello ?’
‘Absolutely wrong.’ She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Terrible, in fact. Disgusting.’
‘Bit harsh,’ I mutter as she switches seats, flopping down beside me and ripping the pen from my hand.
We’re in our living room, debating my next response to the book note and it seems that – so far – I am not doing well.
‘Maybe hi would be better?’ Harry offers from across the room.
Harry is also here.
‘Or hey ?’ Salma suggests eagerly, sitting up straight in the armchair.
So is Salma.
‘ Hey ,’ Clara says firmly. ‘ Hi is slightly better than hello , but still very bad.’ Harry looks crestfallen.
‘I like hi ,’ I tell Harry nicely, and he perks up.
Clara snorts in his direction. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t suggest, like, good day , or how do you doooooo .’ Salma barks a laugh as Harry’s ears go a bit red.
‘I’m not that posh,’ he insists. ‘ Hi is a perfectly normal greeting.’
‘It’s lame!’ Clara tells him furiously. ‘If you’d grown up around normal people instead of, like, the royal family, you would know that. And you—’
I cut her off. ‘Can we stop arguing over greetings? It doesn’t feel that important. You guys do know this is like the fourth note I’ve sent this person? Do we really have to crowd-source every word?’
Clara squints at me. ‘You don’t think what you say to the future love of your life is important?’
I splutter. ‘The love of my life ? We don’t even know if this is a man or a woman yet. Never mind if they’d be age appropriate or a decent human. I’m still ninety-five per cent sure it’s a stroppy lady with boundary issues.’
‘The note has the air of thirty-year-old man,’ Salma says confidently.
‘There is a lot of main character energy here. I mean, jeez, even having the confidence and audacity to write a message to a stranger in the first place could only come from a man. When you’ve been brought up with society telling you you’re number one and everything you do is fantastic, you believe in yourself.
’ She looks around the group, adding archly, ‘For example, men don’t have to crowd-source greetings. ’
‘I’m a man,’ Harry points out meekly.
‘Shush,’ Salma tells him. ‘You’re a man, but you also went to an all boys’ school where uniformity and falling in line was drilled into you.
You follow the crowd, basically, Harry. We are the majority here and we are all shouting a lot.
So you’re falling in line. I bet loads of your school mates ended up in the military.
But not in the normal military; in the fancy bit of the army that, like, the princes all served in, where there’s not as much danger. ’
Harry looks like he will protest but then nods dumbly.
‘So, anyway…’ I clear my throat, trying not to sound annoyed. I really regret letting this lot get involved. ‘Shall we get back to the note and what I should write?’
Salma nods importantly. ‘Y’know, it would really help if we could see your last few messages to each other.’
It’s a fair point, and I reach for my bag where I’ve stored all our notes so far. I hesitate as my hand closes around the wad of papers. There is no reason at all for my reluctance. This person is a stranger and these are my closest friends. And yet, I feel like this is a betrayal, somehow.
‘Come on!’ Clara cries impatiently and I hand them over, my stomach on the floor.
‘It’s mostly just silly chat,’ I mutter defensively and Salma shushes me as they all crowd around. They pull out one of my replies; one where I shared my own favourite childhood book.
I loved The Very Hungry Caterpillar , too!
He represented a simpler time – an easier life!
– didn’t he? He was a bug after my own heart.
Except I feel like all that fruit he ate would get a bit boring after a while, wouldn’t it?
Personally, I’m more of a biscuit fan, so I’d go for one shortbread on a Monday, two chocolate Hobnobs on a Tuesday.
On a Wednesday I’d have three digestives.
On Thursdays I’d get four jaffa cakes. On Fridays I’d get five Viennese whirls and then it’s a free-for-all on Saturdays, so I’d have a whole box of chocolate fingers.
And instead of a green leaf on Sunday, I’d have a Garibaldi because they’re practically healthy, right? All those currants?
This whole thing has made me very hungry. A very hungry caterpillar.
I also still love The Tiger Who Came to Tea, which – I’m realizing now – was also about a greedy creature eating everyone’s dinner. I think this may explain some of my attitudes to food…
Salma giggles, delighted by the silliness, and turns to the note writer’s reply – much to Clara’s irritation.
‘I hadn’t finished reading!’ she cries with fury, and Salma sighs impatiently.
‘Hurry up,’ she instructs, but I see her eyes sliding over my pen pal’s next note without waiting for the slower readers.
Hello again. I’m so thrilled to hear you’re a biscuit person.
I am, too. Although, I would swap out your Friday Viennese whirls for custard creams. And surely a ginger snap has to get a look-in?
Maybe on free-for-all Saturdays? I have to say The Tiger Who Came to Tea was a gamechanger for me.
I made my mum take me to the zoo so I could throw buns and biscuits at the tiger enclosure.
Can you believe they didn’t seem that interested?
It was incredibly upsetting, but I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.
I’ve tried to live a full life since then.
‘He’s funny!’ Salma crows with delight and I smile, feeling somehow proud. After another minute, Clara finishes, looking up with amusement.
‘Bit weird if you ask me!’ she says cheerfully.
‘It’s just a bit of fun,’ I snap and she grins.
‘There aren’t many clues about their identity,’ Harry points out, ever analytical, as Clara rolls her eyes.
‘All this kid book chat – I don’t get it,’ she shrugs, and I grab for the remaining notes. Of course Clara doesn’t get it – she doesn’t understand me or my book friend – so she doesn’t get to read any more of them.
To be honest, it’s a lot more of the same silliness anyway.
Salma starts to protest, but Clara interrupts, looking faraway and dreamy. ‘When I meet Milo for the first time, I’m going to have the perfect conversation ready. None of this caterpillar weirdness.’
I hold back a frustrated scream.
‘Milo?’ Harry frowns. ‘Who’s Milo?’
‘The actor!’ Clara looks exasperated by our blank faces.
‘From Book Boyfriend ? Come on, guys, I’ve told you his name loads of times!
’ I glance at the coffee table where the plastic-covered book sits ready to be returned to the library.
She nods her head quickly. ‘Yes, from your book – I mean, from the TV show.’ She shakes her head again.
‘This is confusing. I mean the main guy.’ She waves at me. ‘The one who plays George.’
‘I haven’t really been watching it, don’t ask me,’ I say.
‘Milo?’ Salma narrows her eyes. ‘That must be a stage name, it’s far too cool to be British.’
‘He’s British, but his mum is American,’ Clara breathes happily. ‘Yet another thing we have in common.’
I frown. ‘Our mum isn’t American,’ I point out and she tuts.
‘No, duh! But Dad was! So we’re both half English, half American – we’ve got that dual-nationality, never-truly-belonging thing in common.’
‘I’ve never felt at all American,’ I tell her firmly. ‘We were born here and Mum raised us. Dad’s a knob.’
Clara looks like she will argue. She was always much more defensive of our dickhead dad.
Even after he disappeared, never to be heard of again, she still found a way to defend him.
Her mouth opens, shuts, then opens again.
‘Whatever,’ she begins breezily. ‘Anyway, I looked Milo up, he lives here in London.’
‘Handy,’ I say. ‘And it’s certainly a nice name,’ I add, trying to be supportive. Clara whips round.
‘It’s a perfect name! He is absolutely perfect.
’ She pauses. ‘Last night I made a list of what I want in my future husband – have you guys all heard of The Secret ? I put out into the universe what I wanted and he’s it.
Milo has every single thing on my list.’ She starts ticking items off on her fingers.
‘He’s exactly my type, looks wise, he lives in the area, he’s funny, super cool, a bit wild, a bad boy and he likes cats. ’
‘How do you even know that?’ Harry screws up his face.
‘I googled the absolute shit out of him,’ Clara says brazenly.
‘He’s only done a handful of interviews promoting the show so far, and mostly they didn’t seem to go very well.
’ She raises her eyebrows. ‘It sounds like he has a bit of a temper!’ When I frown, she adds quickly, ‘Which is sexy! I like a man who runs hot.’ She waves a hand.
‘Anyway, I know he lives in North West London, I know he has family he’s really close to.
He has two cats and he’s single.’ She pauses.
‘That woman he’s been seen out with a few times is definitely just a friend, I can feel it.
’ She grins around the room, adding quickly when Salma makes a face, ‘And he’s straight! Definitely straight.’
‘That came up in the interview?’ Salma looks cynical. She’s done her fair share of celebrity interviews through her job on the radio. She’s told me about the endless restrictions put on what she can ask.
‘Yes,’ Clara retorts defensively, then shrugs. ‘Well, not exactly. But I feel it. He’s too perfect for me to be gay. The universe wouldn’t do that to me.’
‘Because the whole world revolves around you,’ I say more harshly than I meant before I can stop myself.
‘Exactly,’ Clara laughs and I feel my face get hot.
She’s always been this way. She’s the main event and we’re all just in the background, dancing in her peripheral vision.
And it’s becoming increasingly clear that – along with alcohol, stress and anxiety – my sister is another of my rosacea triggers.
Things have been better between us in the last few days.
I’m trying to laugh more at her uselessness, and remind myself that she’s doing her best to be an adult.
She even used the washing machine before her interview yesterday – all by herself!
I mean, it was a sixty degree wash with one random red sock in with the whites, transforming everything into tiny pink doll clothes, but that’s better than nothing.
Isn’t it? Maybe it’s not. She also asked me if she should wash the plates after dinner the other night.
I was initially enraged because I’m not in charge.
I don’t want to be the house mother who has people asking my permission or approval to do things.
She should just get on with the chores without checking in with me!
But then I realized it was progress for her even to realize plates didn’t magically clean themselves.
We’re talking more as well. I’ve been trying to open up; telling her about my days, mostly spent interviewing and researching Aarav’s life; battling with dickhead Mack on the library front desk; and now, bonding over this weird note business.
But I wish she’d open up a bit more to me.
I get the feeling something happened in America.
Something that caused her to come home. She shuts down whenever anyone mentions it.
A few months ago I would’ve defiantly refused to care if she’d been through something over there, but I…
care? I really do. I want to care and I want her to be OK.
She might be selfish and useless and a massive narcissist but I really think she mostly means well. She doesn’t intend to be a child.
I think part of the problem is that Mum has always done everything for her, and it’s obvious that kids who never learn to do anything for themselves turn into adults who are constantly looking to other adults to do everything for them. They look for people who will mother them or control them.
So who was doing everything for her in America?
I sigh deeply. ‘Right. So far we have hey . Does anyone have any other dazzling words of wisdom to offer?’ I wave at my notebook before me and glance around quizzically. Everyone looks a little blank. ‘This isn’t really getting us anywhere,’ I point out after a moment, and stand up.
‘Where are you going?’ Clara sounds panicked. ‘You’re not chickening out of this, are you?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m going to the loo. I need a few minutes of quiet.’
In the bathroom, I slam the door behind me and lean on the sink, breathing deeply and examining my face in the mirror for redness.
I’ve tried all kinds of creams and remedies for the rosacea over the years but nothing’s particularly effective.
I went to the GP last year, but he shrugged me off with an antibiotic gel that did nothing.
Now I just try to manage it as best I can by avoiding triggers.
But I can’t avoid life, and life seems to be full of endless stresses lately.
I pull the notebook back out of my bag. I can do this without that lot. I wrote the first lot of messages without them, didn’t I? I’m just going to follow my instincts and be myself.
But I might as well stick with the hey .
Hey, TGTBT co-fan,
How are things? So sorry for the delay replying to you this time.
I actually got a little… well, scared! It suddenly hit me how strange this whole thing is, and how bizarre it is to be writing to a stranger.
But I’m really enjoying our chat, and I hope you are, too.
I’ve loved our bookish conversation – and our biscuit chat!
– but I’d also love to know more about you.
About what you think of the world and about books that aren’t just aimed at pre-schoolers.
What is your favourite season? Which supermarket do you shop at?
Are you a person who leaves long-winded voice notes on WhatsApp?
Are you an early bird or a night owl? Have you ever been in an ambulance?
Do you cry at adverts? All the important stuff.
I’m looking forward to hearing from you…
Before I can chicken out again, I take the note, folding it twice and shoving it securely into its small white envelope. I tuck it into the plastic cover on the inside page, my heart beating too fast.
It’s my most intimate message yet. I’m wearing my heart on my (book) sleeve and I hope it’s not too much. I don’t want to scare them off and I’m not asking who they are – I don’t think I want to know that just yet – but I do want to know more .
I’ll return it to the library in the morning – and then who knows.